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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29041260">Writer in the Dark</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebounds/pseuds/lovebounds'>lovebounds</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>GMMTV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:33:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,665</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29041260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebounds/pseuds/lovebounds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Of regrets and never actually processing feelings.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lee Thanat Lowkhunsombat/Tay Tawan Vihokratana, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Off Jumpol Adulkittiporn/Gun Atthaphan Phunsawat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Writer in the Dark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bangkok was raining hard when he was about to clock out of the office. He searched for an umbrella or anything that could shield him from the pouring rain thoroughly—from his bag, his desk, to corners inside of his office—and found nothing, much to his disappointment. It would be a circus to walk from the university to the nearest bus stop or MRT station when it was pouring cat. To go home by taxi was also a hassle because the wait would be long and due to traffic jam, it would take him hours just to reach home and the fare would be ridiculously high. At times like this he regretted not owning a car or a motorcycle.</p><p>He sat himself on his chair and turned on his laptop, <em>might as well get some work done</em>, he thought. But he swirled the chair around and stared out of the floor-to-ceiling glass window instead of immediately resuming his work. The streets down below were crowded from all the people behind the wheels honking impatiently and some motorcycles that were bold enough to brave the storm. But he gazed far off. As if whatever happened in the outside was on different realm and other people were insignificant centrepiece.</p><p>The sound from the old wooden clock striking six times echoed in the empty room. It was Friday and everybody was eager to come home early. Half of the compartment on his floor were already silent. His two assistants asked for an early leave because they had to organize a welcoming party for freshmen. Gun, his fellow lecturer, dashed out of his office as soon as the clock struck five times. Today is the 10th anniversary of Gun and his boyfriend's relationship. He tapped his finger onto the armrest and scoffed at the thought, <em>how can someone stay together for 10 years?</em></p><p>But then again, not everyone is emotionally incapable of appreciating other people's warmth and genuine affection. Some people stay together for their lifetime, and some people just...longing with pain in their upper stomach whenever rain came by. Maybe if he had someone to come home to he would understand.</p><p>His thought was distraught by the sound of email notification on his laptop. <em>Right, work.</em> He straighten his back and faced the desk. It was from his sister, reminded him to come home for new year. His sister knew better to reach him through email because his phone was merely an iPod for him. He didn't reply. He was pondering. He might come home, but he couldn't make any promises.</p><p>And just like with everything else, he casted his sister's email aside and put it on hold.</p><p>The soft, palpable sound of piano filled the room. As of lately, he had been relying on piano instrumentals to keep him focused while working, and so far he managed to reorganize syllabus for the semester and was already halfway through revising an article on ASEAN Free Trade Market prospect for his editor to see by the end of the week. But this one pierced his chest with every tunes and turns. He peeked at the next tab to see what song bore many sadness in one. <em>The Tailor of Fitzrovia, Jonny Greenwood, from Phantom Thread,</em> so he read. He couldn't remember anything about Phantom Thread. He probably watched it once and forgot about it ever since.</p><p>But then the next song came on and he froze in his seat. <em>Writer in the Dark, Lorde.</em> Now he knew who to blame for all the melancholy dwelling inside of him. But he knew it from the moment rain hit the pavement. He knew it from the way clouds moved cowardly to the south.</p><p>He had always knew.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>His heart sank when reading the head of the playlist, <em>Tay's sob playlist.</em> He navigated his now cold and trembled hand to scroll down the page. It comprised of all the songs he never listened to at least for the last six years. He couldn't make sense out of how his music application messed around with his order of songs. It probably had a lot to do with unpaid subscription bills but he would deal with that later. <em>So now they just miraculously play some random playlist that was buried away, that I never bothered to click, because I am late to pay my due?</em></p><p>
  <strong> <em>Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark</em> </strong>
</p><p>Moments from his past flashed into his mind uninvitedly. Secretly held hands below the table at one of their friend's party. Fell asleep under oak tree at university's park in one evening. Ran around in the rain after their movie date because they were equally clumsy and left their umbrellas in the restaurant. Kissed in between stacks of books in the old bookstore they loved...</p><p><strong><em>I am my mother's child,</em></strong> <strong><em>I'll love you 'til my breathing stops</em></strong></p><p><strong> <em>I</em> </strong> <strong> <em>'ll love you 'til you call the cops on me</em> </strong></p><p>Tay, the name of the owner of the goddamn sappy playlist, used to disagree with that line, “that's tiring. And ineffective. Why would you love someone until your loved one call police on you? And if they arrest you, then what? You can't be together anymore! Wack.”</p><p>“So you're just going to ignore the fact that it is abusive?” he finally commented.</p><p>“Oh that's definitely abusive, I thought we don't need to declare that? Isn't it common knowledge?” Tay continued cleaning up the expensive lenses, his 'babies' or so he called them.</p><p>“Right. It's common knowledge. But I like the first two lines. Relating to your mother on how you love someone, that means you have realized that your family ingrained within you. You are becoming who raised you. Gods and goddesses forbid I am becoming my parents but you get my point. And there's loving someone until the breathing stops? To the point of death? Can you imagine how does that feel?”</p><p>They loved talking about movies and music, tore them and pick apart the pieces to be put under the microscope that is their thought. But Tay was always the smarter, more sensitive one. Tay softened his rough edges with his jokes and encyclopedia-esque trivia that he loved to drop out of the blue.</p><p>He grew up with strict parents in a strict household. His younger days were full of extra classes outside of school and all he knew was achieving higher than everybody else. When it was finally time to choose a career he had to pick the ruthless one out here, fulfilled dearest father's wish to follow his footstep in academia.</p><p>But being with Tay was different. It always felt like being wrapped with a blanket on a bad day. He could let his guard down once in a while and be vulnerable without getting sacked. He was the only one who ever told him that, “it's okay to not always be on your A game. No one's gonna blame you for messing up, as long as you don't hurt people.” It was during that one stressful time where he failed to get funds for his research.</p><p>Tay painted, and he was good at it. His artistic self was not something that people could acquire through studying relentlessly. He loved calling Tay, “Midas. But instead of gold you turn things into something ethereal, magical.” And Tay would have just stared at him with held back laughter, not wanting to ruin his boyfriend's attempt on being romantic.</p><p>When they finally moved in together, Tay used most of the space for his paints, brushes, and canvases that sprawled from the empty room they decided to use as shared working space, through the living room, and to the balcony. Tay's cameras and lenses occupied more than half of the shelves meant for his thick and dull books. And he didn't mind any of it.</p><p><strong><em>But in our darkest hours,</em></strong> <strong><em>I stumbled on a secret power</em></strong></p><p>
  <strong> <em>I'll find a way to be without you, babe</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When the song ended he decided to stop listening to music for the day. He sighed heavily and leaned back. In the quiet, he could hear his heartbeat raced and his brain ransacked all the peace he tried so hard to build for years, louder than the thunder that was blaring through the city.</p><p><em>...sunt lacrimae rerum.</em> There are tears in things.</p><p>He read it once in one of Tay's book of poem collections. He was meant to ask Tay about it, but never done it until now. <em>How could there be tears in things? Is it the same with how old and used swords bear grudges of the pitiful slain men? But this time it's tears? Is that the right way to interpret it?</em></p><p>Tay would have the answers for them.</p><p>He didn't wince when Tay cried and asked him to “open up...don't you trust me? Anything, everything that is bothering you...I want to know. I want to help you as much as I could.”</p><p>He only watched as Tay packed his things.</p><p>He passed by Tay's boxes as if they weren't there when Tay announced he moved out.</p><p>He kept his mouth shut when Tay questioned him, for the last time, “is this what you really want?”, then shrugged nonchalantly as if it was a normal thing to do.</p><p>He didn't cry when their place felt hollow because of Tay's absence, months after he left.</p><p>And now he let it all out. Six years after the break-up, with the immense pain punched his gut and guilt tugged on his sleeves. He was paying his due for all the grieves he hadn't been able to celebrate properly.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The clock struck seven times and the storm lingered longer than what anyone expected. Skyscrapers and vehicles colored Bangkok in the midst of it all with their lights. But small part of them knew, there was no solace for people in the city who yearned for the things they failed to grasp.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Inspired by Lorde's Writer in the Dark from Melodrama (2017).</p></blockquote></div></div>
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